The smell of waste and hate permeates the cell as he languishes in regret, awaiting the final verdict. A sentence devoid of trial. Or reason.

He – third person. Really? The pain is real but what about the melodramatics? What could you have changed?

I revisited the box. How many times before …

The classic book with torn edges, stains, – yeah, let’s go there. Excrement? Maybe. No, but seriously.

I was thinking about Woody Allen. Fucking Woody Allen. Not his trials or shit with his family but his movie Love and Death. The old Jewish guy – the grandfather maybe – can’t remember but he runs around carrying this small piece of soil and happy that he has his own piece of land. That’s how I remember it. Still stuck for some reason in my mental hard drive.

I looked outside at my own. And the same trees and plants I’ve admired the past 20 + years, especially when drinking or altering my consciousness. In peace. And it feels good. The pride is there. Good stuff! Sense of place. Home. Family. Peaceful.

But brief. No escape – the memories and demons creep in. Have to ruin everything. Regretful of what – why so convinced I chose paths in error?

There it is – the great book of fears, tears, and regret. The question of personal value and if the journey still warrants pursuit. To see the next chapter and he wants to believe he may get that better ending. But perhaps it’s already begun but too blind too see. The pain body stealing his thunder. Repeatedly.

Can we revisit Chapter 2, please?